Olga stood by the window, staring out at the wet November courtyard where the wind chased yellow leaves along the fence. In the reflection on the glass, she could see her own face—pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Thirty-two years old, but she looked forty. She’d been meaning to fix her teeth for ages; she was embarrassed to smile, and at work her coworkers whispered behind her back.
“Ol, why are you just standing there?” Andrey walked past her into the kitchen without even looking at her.
She turned silently and looked at her husband. Eight years of marriage, and this was what it had come to—he didn’t even see her. He walked past her like she was furniture.
“They paid out the bonus today,” she said quietly.
“Oh, yeah? Good for you.” Andrey switched on the kettle and took some sausage out of the fridge. “Just so you know, we’ve already spent it, in case you’re wondering.”
Everything inside Olga went cold.
“What do you mean, spent it? Andryusha, we agreed. I’ve been saving for braces—you know that. We were supposed to… together…”
“Ol, well, you see, Sveta called this morning.” He cut a slice of bread without looking at his wife. “They’ve got problems again. They need to pay off the credit card debt by the end of the month, otherwise the interest will be insane.”
Svetlana. His sister. Thirty-five years old, two kids by two different fathers, and not a single steady job for the last five years.
“Andrey,” Olga said slowly. “We saved for three months. Three months. I didn’t even buy myself a new coat, even though the old one is falling apart at the seams. You promised you’d help me. You said this time you definitely would.”
“I will help!” He turned, and she saw irritation in his eyes. “You can wait a little longer with your teeth. But Sveta has a real problem. Do you know what the interest is if you’re late? She already has money issues. There’s never enough for anything. Think about the kids, at least.”
“I am thinking about them!” Olga’s voice broke into a shout, even though she hadn’t wanted to yell. “I think about them all the time! Every time your sister calls, I already know how the conversation will end. One time she needs money for repairs, then for the kids’ clothes, then for some courses. Andrey, she works as a sales clerk! Her salary is normal! She just wastes it on nonsense!”
“Don’t talk about my sister like that.” He set the knife down on the table, his jaw tightening. “She’s raising the kids alone.”
“Alone?” Olga laughed, but it came out bitter. “Alone—the one you send twenty thousand to every month? Alone—the one who drags herself to restaurants with her friends every weekend?”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“No, I’m not!” Olga stepped closer and looked him in the eyes. “I keep track, Andryusha. I count every kopek. In the last year alone you gave her more than two hundred thousand. Two hundred thousand! But for my teeth—you can’t spare it.”
Andrey looked away and started buttering his bread.
“It’s different. She’s family.”
“And who am I?” The question hung in the air.
He didn’t answer. He just chewed his sandwich, staring out the window. And in that silence, there was everything.
Olga went back into the room and sat down on the couch. Her hands were shaking. She tucked them under her thighs so she wouldn’t have to see her fingers trembling. She remembered how it all began. They’d met at work; back then he seemed so attentive, so caring. He brought her coffee, walked her home, gave her flowers. And then they got married, and it was like something in him switched off.
At first it was small things. Svetlana asked for help with renovations—he disappeared at her place for whole weekends. Then she needed money for daycare—he took it from their shared savings without even asking. Whenever Olga tried to object, he would say, “You understand—she’s alone with the kids. She’s a single mom. We have to help.”
Have to. That word became a code. They had to help, had to support, had to understand. And what did Svetlana have to do? Nothing. She just took and took, and never gave anything back.
Three years ago, Olga broke her arm after slipping on the icy steps by their building. A cast, sick leave, and then surgery was needed. They didn’t have enough money for a private clinic, and she had to wait for treatment through a quota system. Right then Andrey got his annual bonus—fifty thousand. Olga hoped he’d help, that they’d do the surgery faster in a good clinic. But he gave the money to Svetlana instead. “She can’t afford a school uniform for the eldest,” he explained.
Her arm healed badly. It still aches whenever the weather changes.
“Ol!” Andrey shouted from the kitchen. “Sveta’s coming over tomorrow with the kids. Make something.”
Make something. Like an order.
Olga rose and went into the bedroom. She opened the wardrobe, took an old sports bag from the top shelf, and started packing Andrey’s things: shirts, jeans, sweaters. Her hands moved mechanically, as if on their own. Her mind was clear, cold. She understood everything. This was called the boiling point—when the last drop falls into the cup of patience.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
“What are you doing?” Andrey stood in the doorway, staring at the bag in confusion.
“Packing your things.”
“I can see that. Why?”
Olga zipped the bag, lifted it, and set it on the bed. Then she turned to her husband.
“You gave my bonus to your sister—so go live with her,” she said, unable to hold back.
The words flew out hard and precise, each one like a stone.
Andrey went pale.
“Are you serious? You’re making a scene over some bonus?”
“Not over the bonus,” Olga answered quietly. “Over the fact that you don’t give a damn about me. Eight years, Andrey. Eight years I stayed quiet. Endured. Hoped you’d come to your senses. But you didn’t. Svetlana matters more to you. She always has.”
“This is nonsense!” He took a step toward her, then stopped when he saw her face. “You’re my wife. Of course you matter more.”
“No.” Olga shook her head. “Not more. A wife is someone you take care of. Someone you support. And to you, I’m just… here. Like part of the interior. As long as I stay quiet and don’t ask for anything, everything’s fine. But the moment I ask for help—you immediately find a reason to refuse.”
“I’m not refusing! It’s just that Sveta has it worse right now.”
“Sveta always has it worse!” Olga clenched her fists. “Do you understand? Always! It’s constant problems, constant crises. And why? Because she knows you’ll come running, you’ll help, you’ll give her money. She doesn’t even try to handle her life herself! Why would she, when she has such a wonderful brother?”
“You’re just jealous.”
Olga gave a short, bitter smile.
“Yes, I am. I’m jealous of your sister. The one you see once a month, but who gets more attention and care than I get in a whole year.”
Silence fell. Andrey stared at her with his mouth slightly open, clearly not finding words. Olga suddenly realized that for the first time in all these years, she was telling him the truth. All of it. No softening, no smoothing the edges.
“I’m tired, Andryusha,” she said more calmly. “Tired of being second. Tired of asking for what should be automatic. We’re husband and wife. A family. But you chose a different family.”
“That’s not fair,” he mumbled. “You’re forcing me to choose.”
“No. You already chose. A long time ago. Back when I was walking around with a broken arm and you gave the money to your sister. Or when we were saving for vacation and you blew half of it on her repairs. Or now, when I finally want to fix my teeth and you handed my bonus to her. You chose every time. And every time you chose not me.”
Andrey sat down on the edge of the bed and ran a hand over his face.
“I just… can’t say no to her. She’s my sister. We grew up together. I’m responsible for her.”
“She’s a grown woman,” Olga said. “Thirty-five. Two kids. She’s responsible for herself. And you’re not helping her—you’re crippling her. She’ll never learn to cope on her own because she knows you’ll always catch her.”
“Maybe you’re right.” He looked at her, and something like realization flickered in his eyes. “But I can’t do it differently.”
“Then you can’t,” Olga nodded. “Live the way you can. Just without me.”
She picked up the bag and carried it into the hallway, setting it by the front door. She went back into the bedroom, took another bag, and started packing his shoes.
“Ol, stop. Let’s talk properly.”
“We talked for eight years,” she answered without turning around. “You know the result.”
He tried to hug her, but she stepped back—not roughly, but firmly.
“Don’t. Please.”
“Are you seriously kicking me out?”
“I’m seriously saying I can’t live like this anymore. You can stay with your sister. Or your parents. Or rent a place. I don’t care. But you’re not living here anymore.”
“Ol…”
“That’s it, Andrey. Enough.”
She carried the second bag into the hallway. Opened the door and put both bags out on the landing. Then she turned to her husband, who stood in the entryway looking lost, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.
“Tomorrow you can come get the rest,” she said. “Leave the keys in the hallway.”
“You can’t throw me out! It’s my apartment too!”
“We can discuss it with lawyers. But tonight you’re leaving. Because if you stay, I can’t vouch for myself.”
There was such exhaustion in her voice—and at the same time such steel—that Andrey understood there was no point arguing. Silently he pulled on his jacket, picked up the bags.
“You’ll regret this,” he threw out from the doorway.
“Maybe,” Olga agreed. “But not as much as I regret putting up with this for so many years.”
The door closed. The lock clicked.
Olga leaned against the wall and shut her eyes. Inside there was emptiness—but a strange kind of emptiness, not painful so much as freeing. Like she’d finally dropped a heavy load she’d been carrying for far too long.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Andrey: “You’re an idiot. Stay with your teeth.”
She deleted it. Went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. The same pale face, the same dark circles. But something had changed. There was something new in her eyes—resolve.
Olga took her phone and found the contact for the dental clinic she’d been eyeing for half a year.
“Good evening,” she said into the receiver. “I’d like to book a consultation.”
While the receptionist flipped through the schedule, Olga looked at herself in the mirror again. And for the first time in a long time, she smiled. Crooked, shy, self-conscious about her teeth—but she smiled.
“When would you like to come in?” the voice asked.
“As soon as possible,” Olga replied. “I’ve waited a long time. Too long.”
Three weeks passed. Olga sat in the dentist’s chair while the doctor took impressions of her teeth.
“It’ll take about a year,” the doctor said, kneading the soft material in his hands. “But the result will be excellent. The main thing is not to miss appointments and to keep up your hygiene.”
“I won’t miss them,” Olga promised.
She paid for the treatment herself. Took out a small loan and picked up weekend side work. It was hard—yes. She was tired—yes. But it was her choice. Her money. Her decision.
Andrey called twenty times a day at first. Sent messages. Asked her to come back, promised he’d change. Then he went quiet. A week later, a text came: “I’m living at Sveta’s. You were right about her. But I still won’t forgive you.”
Olga didn’t reply. Forgiveness wasn’t the goal.
She was walking home after an appointment at the dental clinic, and her heart felt light. A year of treatment lay ahead—discomfort, food restrictions. But it was her decision. Her path. And for the first time in many years, she was walking it on her own.
At the entrance to her building, a neighbor, Aunt Vera, called out to her.
“Ol, where’s Andrey? Haven’t seen him around.”
“He moved in with his sister,” Olga answered briefly.
“Oh,” the neighbor sighed. “Well, what can you do. Hang in there, dear.”
Olga went up to her apartment, took off her shoes, walked into the kitchen, and put the kettle on. She sat by the window, looking out at the same November courtyard, the same wet trees, the same fence. But now everything looked different. Not so gray. Not so hopeless.
She took out her phone, opened her notes, and typed: “List for next month.” Then she began: “1. Buy a pool membership. 2. Call Marina, go to the movies.”
Life hadn’t ended. It was only beginning—real life. Her own.
And to hell with what Andrey says. To hell with what Svetlana thinks. To hell with the relatives’ judgment—they’d surely be gossiping about her behind her back.
The important thing was that she made a choice. She chose herself. And it was the most right decision she’d made in the last eight years.
The kettle boiled and clicked off. Olga poured the hot water into a mug and steeped a chamomile tea bag. She sat back down by the window.
Outside the glass, a fine rain drizzled—but inside, it was warm and calm. Calm in a way it hadn’t been in a long time.
And it was only the beginning.